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SELECTIONS 

FROM 

THE  POEMS  OF 

TIMOTHY  OTIS  PAINE 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S   SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

27  West  Twenty-third  Street  24  Bedford  Street,  Strand 

Cbt  $nukcrboelur  prtsj 

1897 


COPYRIGHT,  1897 

BV 
AGNES  H.  PAINK 


TEbe  Ttnicberbocfeer  prces,  *Uw  fieri; 


PREFACE. 

THE  poems  in  this  small  posthumous  volume  are  a 
part  of  those  written  by  the  author  in  the  intervals  of 
a  busy  student  life.  I  say  student  life,  yet  he  was  as 
intrinsically  a  poet  as  a  student,  and,  to  speak  most 
truly,  it  seems  as  if  his  life  were  made  of  three,  symmet 
rically  united  into  one. 

In  the  first  place  he  was  the  active  pastor,  loving  very 
much  those  he  served  for  nearly  forty  years,  and  very 
much  beloved  by  them. 

Then  he  was  the  learned  archaeologist  who  restored 
Solomon's  Temple,  using  as  his  implements  the  many 
languages  he  learned  for  the  purpose  ;  employing,  also, 
an  artist  power  of  illustration,  so  rare,  so  accurate, 
so  exquisite,  that  the  plates  in  his  folio  volume,  beauti 
ful  as  they  are,  are  dwarfed  by  the  original  drawings 
from  which  they  are  taken.  Thus,  during  a  large  por 
tion  of  his  working  life,  his  thoughts  dwelt  in  the  world 


iv  PREFACE. 

of  the  Scriptures,  the  Hebrew,  the  Septuagint,  the  Copt, 
the  Italic,  and  that  of  the  other  authorities  he  consulted. 

"  I  am  all  buried  up  in  the  visions  of  God  in  Ezekiel," 
he  once  wrote,  "  and  in  them  I  do  know  something — 
near — I  know  Ezekiel's  heart." 

As  an  archaeologist  he,  also,  followed,  in  the  hiero 
glyphics  of  the  Book  of  the  Dead,  what  the  Egyptians 
relate  of  the  hereafter,  and  portrayed  on  a  long  scroll 
the  journey  of  the  spirit  as  there  recorded. 

His  third  life  was  that  of  the  poet,  and  yet,  as  I  have 
said,  the  poet  was  the  underlying  and  ever-present  man. 
He  seemed  always  conscious  of  nature,  and  little  in  her 
realm  escaped  the  keenness  of  his  observation.  He 
even  caught  the  reflection  of  a  violet  in  the  clear  eyes  of 
a  grazing  cow.  As  a  boy,  he  could  call  the  birds  to  him, 
and  he  held  converse  with  the  trees  and  the  streams. 

The  intense  enthusiasm  of  his  character  was  remark 
able,  an  enthusiasm  as  far  removed  from  temporary 
excitement  as  the  steady  glow  of  a  planet  is  from  the 
darting  of  a  flame,  and  as  great  in  his  last,  his  seventy- 
second  year,  as  it  could  have  been  in  his  youth.  This 


PREFACE.  V 

seemed  to  preserve  the  unaffected  heart  of  childhood  in 
his  gentle,  useful  age.  It  was,  however,  very  individual, 
for  it  co-existed  with  calmness,  and  left  the  impression 
of  knowing  "the  bit  and  the  bridle."  Akin  to  it,  and 
giving  it  its  aliment,  was  an  equally  remarkable  appreci 
ation  of  all  greatness.  A  gigantic  work  of  the  human 
intellect,  a  new  dictionary,  for  instance,  an  invention 
showing  a  new  use  of  some  law  of  nature,  made  him 
"  catch  fire  at  once,"  as  he  expressed  it. 

He  loved  to  pay  eloquent  tribute  to  the  real  greatness 
of  the  simple,  the  unnoticed,  the  lowly.  He  admired 
especially  work — fine  and  faithful — no  matter  how  hum 
ble.  This  fine  work  he  strove  to  give  in  all  that  he 
did.  "  Whosoever  builds  must  do  so  in  full  faith  ;  " 
he  said,  "  for  it  seems  to  me  not  worthy  of  a  man  to 
work  poorly,  fearing  that  his  work  will  perish.  There 
is  a  great  deal  of  work  put  into  everything  about  us — 
even  a  snow-flake  or  the  flower  of  a  weed  ;  and  the 
smallest  object  in  nature  is  worked  up  as  perfectly  as 
the  largest.  It  hurts  the  mind  to  work  poorly  ;  and  it 
helps  the  mind  forever  to  do  the  least  thing  to  the  best." 


VI  PREFACE. 

No  word  was  too  homely  for  him,  if  it  expressed  his 
thought  best,  or  named  his  fact.  The  scores  of  letters 
he  wrote  to  be  sure  of  accuracy  in  every  detail  of  his 
Woodlandcrs,  were  as  eager  and  interested  as  his  re 
searches  for  Solomon's  Temple. 

Of  course,  this  rich,  threefold  life  could  not  be  at 
tained  without  a  withdrawal  from  much  that  occupies 
the  world.  In  retired  simplicity,  with  great  concentra 
tion  of  purpose,  he  kept  far  from  the  interests  of  the 
mart  and  the  exchange.  His  thought  tarried  little  on 
the  politics  of  the  day. 

No  more  could  this  life  be  attained  had  he  not  had 
a  home  in  which  he  found  perfect  sympathy,  rest,  and 
renewal  ;  a  home  where  he  received  as  he  gave,  and 
where  he  still  gives  from  beyond. 

Thus  he  was  enabled  to  sow  by  many  waters.  We 
know  that  a  blessing  has  come  from  some  of  these 
poems  ;  may  more  blessings  still  spring  from  this  seed 
that  he  has  sown  ! 

S.  W.  P. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

A  DEW-DROP 62 

AH  ME,  THE  STEP,  HOW  SHORT  A  ONE 15 

A  LONG,  Low  LINE  OF  BRICK  AND  GRANITE  STORES 82 

ANOTHER  PRESENT  FROM  HEAVEN 2 

A  SIGH 24 

A  TREE,  DELIGHTED  WITH  THE  EARTH,  GREW  SAD 65 

AUTUMN  TREES 8 

A  WORM 18 

BE  CAREFUL 25 

BREAKING  UP  OF  WINTER 37 

CHILDREN  OF  HEAVEN 13 

CHIMNEY  SWALLOW 42 

END  OF  DECEMBER 35 

FAR  up  IN  THE  DEPTHS  OF  THE  SKY 7 

FLOWERS  THAT  BE  so  VERY  SMALL 1 1 

FORGETFULNESS 67 

FREE  AND  LOOSE.  .  i 


viii  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

GOOD  WORK 23 

GREAT  GABLE-TIPPING  SUN 22 

HAIL  TO  THEE,  TERROR 52 

HEAR,  GOOD  SHEPHERD,  HEAR  MY  CRY 80 

HITHER  COMES  THE  SWALLOW  BACK 42 

Ho,  COME,  STAND  WITH  HEADS  UNCOVERED 73 

HOME  LAKE 68 

How  THE  EAGLE  DOES 47 

I  AM  A  VIOLIN 4 

I  AM  GLAD  THAT  His  HOUSE  HATH  MANSIONS 19 

I  CAME  NOT  DOWN  FROM  HEAVEN 18 

I  FEEL  A  SONG 3 

I  GREW  OLD 27 

I  GREW  OLD  THE  OTHER  DAY 27 

I  HEAR  THE  SONGS  OF  THE  INSECTS 6 

I  KNOW  THE  HILLS  ABOUT  OLD  HOME 28 

I  *M  LIKE  A  FISH  OF  THE  OCEAN 68 

IN  HEAVEN  WE  SHALL  BE  CHILDREN  AGAIN 13 

I  OFTEN  THINK  IN  THE  EVENING 14 

I  ONCE,  O  SEGUR,  HOPED  TO  SING 60 

I  SEE  HOW  LONG  THEY  WILL  Miss  HER 17 

I  SEE  NOT  NOW  WHY  E'EN  FORGETFULNESS 67 

I  THINK  SWEET  MEMORIES  WILL  NOT  DIE 16 

I  WILL  SING  WHERE  I  LIGHT i 

LITTLE  BLUE  BUTTERFLY..  e, 


CONTENTS.  IX 

PAGB 

LITTLE  CHUBBY,  TWITTERING  WREN 49 

LITTLE  SQUIRREL,  SPRING  is  HATCHING 37 

MANSIONS 19 

MEASURE 82 

MILE-STONES 66 

MOSSES 12 

MY  WOUNDED  HEART  Is  SORE 24 

NATURE  ALWAY  Is  IN  TUNE 34 

NATURE  DRESSES  HER  CHILDREN  BEST 8 

Now  THE  WINTER  CHICKADEE 36 

ODE  AND  SONG  TO  THE  ENGLISH  SPARROW 52 

ODE  TO  THE  SUN 22 

ODE  TO  THE  WIND 29 

OH  DEAREST  BIRDS  THAT  EVER  SANG 38 

OH  WIND  OF  MIGHTY  WILL 29 

ONE  SUN-LIT  DEW-DROP  IN  THE  GRASS 62 

PRINCESS  MAssAs6rr 69 

ROBIN-SONG 40 

ROUND  ABOUT  UPON  THE  WEEDS 10 

SEEDS 10 

SHAWS  OF  THE  SEGUR 58 

SHY  THRUSH,  AGAIN  THY  VOICE  is  HEARD 44 

SONG  OF  MY  LOVING 14 


PAGE 

SONG  OF  THE  SNOW 7 

SONGS  OF  THE  INSECTS 6 

SO  ROUND  ABOUT  OUR  HEDGES  FLIT 52 

SOUL-SONG 3 

SPRING  is  A  LISPER 35 

STONYTOP 28 

SWEET  MEMORIES 16 

TEWELKMA 69 

THE  BAT 54 

THE  BOAT 26 

THE  BUILDER 15 

THE  EAGLE 47 

THE  EVENING  PRIMROSE 63 

THE  FOOT-TRACK 21 

THE  IMMORTAL  TREE 65 

THE  LITTLE  MOSSES  TRUSTING  CLING 12 

THE  LOST  FLOWER 1 1 

THE  LOST  SHEEP 80 

THE  MYSTIC 56 

THE  OLD  BRIDGE 17 

THE  POOR  WEED 33 

THE  PRIMROSE  BLOOMS  AT  EVENTIDE 63 

THE  RAINBOW  IN  THE  SPRAY . .  2 

THERE  ARE  THAT  FULFIL  NOT  THEIR  PROMISES 33 

THE  ROBIN  SINGS  AT  DIMMY  DAWN 40 

THE  SEGUR  SHAWS  ARE  BECKONING  ME 58 

THE  VIOLET  BLOWS  BY  MYSTIC  SIDE 56 


CONTENTS.  XI 

PAGE 

THE  WATER  ON  THE  MEADOW'S  BREAST 20 

THE  WHEAT  OF  AMENTI 31 

THE  WOODLANDERS 73 

THOU  EASILY  MAYST  CRUSH  THE  FLOWER 25 

THOUGH  IT  WITH  TOIL  BE  RIFE 21 

THOU,  LITTLE  EVEN  BIRD 54 

TO-MORROW  WE  WILL  SAIL  AGAIN 26 

To  THE  BLUEBIRD 38 

To  THE  BUTTERFLIES g 

To  THE  WOOD-THRUSH  OF  SEGAGUS 44 

TRUE  FAME  is  WORTHY  OF  A  GOOD  MAN'S  ZEAL 66 

VIOLET  BUTTERFLY 5 

VIOLIN 4 

VISIT  TO  SEGUR'S  BROOK 60 

WAIT 34 

WATERS  OF  THE  MEADOW 20 

WHO  PRAISED  WHEN  SUN,  MOON,  STAR 23 

WILL  MEN  FORGET  THAT  MY  WHEAT-FIELD 31 

WINTER  CHICKADEES 36 

WREN 49 

YE  ARE  BLESSF,D,  BUTTERFLIES 9 


FREE  AND  LOOSE. 

I  WILL  sing  where  I  light 
And  alight  where  I  may, 

As  the  birds  in  their  flight 
That  go  singing  away. 

Not  a  foot  of  the  ground 
Do  I  own,  not  a  hand  ; 

I  go  trespassing  round 

For  the  flowers  of  the  land  ; 

Not  to  pick  anything, 

But  to  see  them  in  bloom 

And  to  hear  the  birds  sing 

Where  there  's  plenty  of  room. 


THE  RAINBOW  IN  THE  SPRAY. 

ANOTHER  present  from  Heaven, 

Another  peaceful  day  ; 
Like  a  dew  that  covers  the  dryness, 

Like  a  rainbow  in  a  spray. 
And  this  is  all  of  my  lifetime, 

And  this  my  only  day 
That  I  need  to  think  of  or  care  for, 

With  its  rainbow  in  the  spray. 


SOUL-SONG. 

I  FEEL  a  song 
Going  by  on  the  wind 
Of  the  air  that  is  breathed 
By  the  mind, 

But  hear  no  word 
Of  the  lay  as  it  flows 
In  a  silvery  stream 
To  the  close. 


VIOLIN. 

I  AM  a  violin 

Missing  the  fingers  slender 
That  whilom  took  me  in 

To  bosom  tender  ; 

Longing  again  to  hear 
All  of  the  dear  caressings 

And  feel  the  gentle  ear, 
The  warm  heart  blessings. 

Oh  for  the  touch  again 
Vibrating  all  the  stringing 

That  silent  must  remain — 
To  one  hand  ringing  ! 


VIOLET  BUTTERFLY. 

LITTLE  blue  butterfly 
Like  a  blue  violet, 

Up  from  the  meadow  fly 
Like  a  blue  violet. 

What  is  it  floateth  thee, 
Lavender  violet  ? 

Where  is  it  bearing  thee, 
Soul  of  a  violet  ? 


SONGS  OF  THE  INSECTS. 

I  HEAR  the  songs  of  the  insects 

Out  in  the  dark  to-night 

Enter  the  open  window 

Of  the  chamber  void  of  light ; 

And  they  come  like  words  of  comfort 

Spoke  to  the  darkened  mind, — 

Like  the  words  so  tenderly  uttered 

That  opened  the  eyes  of  the  blind  : 

And  I  feel  me  falling  to  slumber 

In  wondering  over  the  way 

The  continuous  tridulous  singing 

Is  tingeing  the  dark  with  day. 


SONG  OF  THE  SNOW. 

FAR  up  in  the  depths  of  the  sky, 
In  the  loft  of  the  zenith  on  high, 
Under  the  top  of  the  dome 
Is  the  feathery  snow's  high  home. 

It  is  there  that  garments  of  white 
Are  suddenly  made  in  the  height 
And  dropped  on  the  sorrowing  throng 
Who  cry  to  the  Lord,  "  How  long  ?  " 

And  heads  that  are  bowed  and  old 
Grow  white  as  the  sheep  of  the  fold — 
As  the  crowns  of  the  purified  throng 
Who  reign  with  the  Lord — how  long  ! 


AUTUMN  TREES. 

NATURE  dresses  her  children  best 

Just  before  they  fall  to  their  rest  ; 

Puts  on  every  beautiful  vest 

Ere  they  pass  to  the  fields  of  the  blest ; 

Every  fruit  is  fairest  drest, 

Every  leaf  is  beautifulest. 


TO  THE  BUTTERFLIES. 

YE  are  blessed,  butterflies  ; 

Ye  are  of  the  early  wise. 

Now  ye  feed  on  tender  leaf, 

Now  ye  bide  in  durance  brief, 

And  not  over-long  delay 

To  put  forms  meant  for  earth  away. 


SEEDS. 

ROUND  about  upon  the  weeds 
There  are  many  little  seeds 
Held  in  many  a  tiny  cup 
Only  waiting  to  come  up  : 
Only  waiting  for  the  sun  ; 
For  the  winter  to  be  done  ; 
For  a  bosom  in  the  earth 
Warm  enough  to  give  them  birth. 
And  I  feel  like  any  weed 
With  a  ripe  or  dropping  seed  ; 
Waiting  for  another  sun 
When  my  little  day  is  done. 


THE  LOST  FLOWER. 

FLOWERS  that  be  so  very  small, 
Flowers  that  be  no  flowers  at  all — 
Not  the  size  and  not  perfume 
But  the  hand  that  held  the  bloom. 

Fingers  of  the  hand  so  small, 
Fingers  that  are  spirit  all — 
Not  the  hand,  but  't  is  the  thought 
Moves  the  ringers  unto  aught. 

Thought  alone  I  value  not 
But  the  soul  within  the  thought. — 
Oh  ye  flowers  out  o'er  the  land, 
How  I  miss  the  vanished  hand  ! 


MOSSES. 

THE  little  mosses  trusting  cling 

To  all  the  ledges  where  they  spring  : 

Content  to  live  in  lowly  bed 

Or  honeysuckle  rock  o'erhead  ; 

Or  in  the  vases  of  the  ice, 

Or  where  the  trout  brook  taketh  rise  ; 

Upon  the  wall,  or  on  the  tree, — 

Where'er  their  happy  home  may  be. 


CHILDREN  OF  HEAVEN. 

IN  Heaven  we  shall  be  children  again  ; 
Children  of  One  from  children  of  twain. 

None  but  children  shall  come  into  Heaven  ; 
Children  of  seventy,  children  of  seven. 

So  it  is  said,  and  so  it  is  sung  : 

As  we  grow  older  we  shall  grow  young. 


SONG   OF   MY   LOVING. 

I  OFTEN  think  in  the  evening 

Or  when  the  morning  is  near 
Or  in  the  twilight  of  sadness 

Why  is  it  I  am  here  ? 
And  why  do  I  stay  so  long 

And  steadily  away  ? 
Why  alway  going  to  see  them 

But  never  setting  the  day  ? 
My  bosom  is  heaving  and  aching 

For  the  few  that  yet  remain, 
And  I  am  longing  and  planning 

To  see  them  once  again.  — 
And  also  the  day  am  I  setting  ? 

I  have  but  few  to  set, 
But  send  this  song  of  my  loving 

To  those  who  have  them  yet. 


!    I 


THE  BUILDER. 

AH  me,  the  step,  how  short  a  one, 
Between  the  doing  and  the  done  ! 
How  near  the  barque  may  come  to  land 
Yet  cast  her  cargo  on  the  sand  ! 

Oh  give  me  strength,  and  give  me  mind 
To  finish  what  my  hands  may  find  ! 
That  none  may  say,  in  future  days, 
This  man  could  hew,  but  could  not  raise. 


SWEET  MEMORIES. 

I  THINK  sweet  memories  will  not  die, 

But  live,  and  die  not  ever. 

I  think  the  hearts  sweet  memories  tie 

Will  bounden  be  forever. 

I  think  sweet  memories  will  awake 

That  long  have  slept  and  slumbered. 

I  think  the  longest  night  will  break 

In  dawn,  and  joys  unnumbered. 


16 


THE  OLD  BRIDGE. 

J  SEE  how  long  they  will  miss  her  : 

We  are  alway  building  new  bridges  ; 
We  raise  up  the  old-time  valley 

And  level  off  the  ridges. 
The  overarching  elm  trees 

Are  killed  by  our  new  filling  ; 
But  still  we  build  new  bridges 

And  little  heed  the  killing. 
But  do  not  believe,  my  darling, 

That  so  it  will  be  with  you  : 
My  spirit  goes  over  the  old  bridge 

And  only  my  feet  the  new. 


A  WORM. 

I  CAME  not  down  from  Heaven 
Nor  came  I  to  my  own  ; 

But  I  am  born  of  earth 

To  none  in  Heaven  known. 

Oh  Who  will  give  me  might 
To  break  away  and  fly 

That  I  be  not  a  worm 
The  day  I  die  ! 


18 


MANSIONS. 

I  AM  glad  that  His  house  hath  mansions, 

For  I  shall  be  tired  at  first  ; 
And  I  'm  glad  He  hath  bread  and  water  of  life, 

For  I  shall  be  hungry  and  thirst. 
I  am  glad  that  the  house  is  His,  not  mine, 

For  He  will  be  in  it,  and  near  ; 
To  take  from  me  the  grief  I  have  brought 

And  to  wipe  away  every  tear. 


WATERS  OF  THE  MEADOW. 

THE  water  on  the  meadow's  breast 
Is  moving  slowly,  as  I  look  : 
She  cannot  yet  be  called  a  brook 

But  water  seeking  rest — 

Her  level  and  her  rest. 

She  is  not  seeking  greater  height, 
But  willingly  is  moving  slow 
And  going  where  the  ground  is  low 
And  yet  her  face  is  bright — 
Her  face  is  calm  and  bright. 


THE  FOOT-TRACK. 

THOUGH  it  with  toil  be  rife 
This  is  my  way  of  life. 

Though  other  roads  are  fair 
They  lead  to  otherwhere. 

Though  rugged  be  the  path 
It  many  restings  hath. 

When  slacks  the  driver's  rein 
Then  ends  the  old  home  lane. 


ODE  TO  THE  SUN. 

GREAT  gable-tipping  sun, 

Just  bursting  from  the  east 
Thy  day  is  now  begun. 

But  thou  art  not  alone 

The  builder  of  a  day  : 
Each  man  shall  make  his  own. 

Oh,  mightiest  of  the  great, 

Alone  in  majesty, 
Thou  movest  on  in  state  ! 

But  over  thee  and  me 

There  is  a  Mightier  One 
Who  guideth  me  and  thee. 

The  great  alike  and  small, 

Attended  or  in  wait, 
Shall  hearken  to  His  call. 


GOOD  WORK. 

WHO  praised  when  sun,  moon,  star, 
Great  earth,  and  sea  spread  far 
Were  made  ?     But  yet  what  worth 
From  laboring  sun,  sea,  earth  ! 

Put  work  enough  in  all 
Thou  doest,  great  or  small, 
And  let  the  ages  tell 
How  much  thou  didst,  and  well. 


A  SIGH. 

MY  wounded  heart  is  sore 
And  needs  a  gentle  touch 
I  do  not  ask  for  much 

And  cannot  ask  for  more — 
A  gentle  touch. 


BE  CAREFUL. 

THOU  easily  mayst  crush  the  flower  ; 
The  delicate  thing  is  in  thy  power, 
A  ready  victim  of  its  doom  : 
But  thou  canst  not  restore  its  bloom. 


25 


THE  BOAT. 

TO-MORROW  we  will  sail  again  * 

In  our  little  boat. 
'T  will  take  but  one  to  man  the  bark 

'T  is  but  a  feeble  float. 
We  shall  row  in  waters  then 
Never  seen  afore  ; 
And  we  '11  drive  our  shallow  skiff 
To  another  shore. 
*  Cras  ingens  iterabimus  xqiior. — HORACE. 


26 


I  GREW  OLD. 

I  GREW  old,  the  other  day, 
And  I  worked  uneasily. 
Then  I  thought  it  need  not  be 
By  and  by  we  shall  not  say 
"  I  grew  old,  the  other  day." 


27 


STONYTOP. 

I  KNOW  the  hills  about  old  home 

But  little  higher  are  than  these  ; 
And  yet  I  cannot  make  it  seem 

That  this  is  so — with  ease. 

The  scene  from  Stonytop  is  fair 
As  that  my  childhood  gazed  upon  ; 

But  youth  comes  falsifying  things 
And  this  is  all  outshone. 

These  robins  and  the  sparrows  stir 

My  heart  as  in  the  olden  days  ; 
But  much  of  glory  in  their  songs 

Is  from  the  early  lays. 

Deep  in  the  oldest  tree  are  veins 

That  formed  there  when  the  trunk  was  young  ; 
But  life  comes  gushing  up  through  them 

The  latest  growths  among. 


28 


ODE  TO  THE  WIND. 

OH  Wind  of  mighty  will, 
Remember  Him  who  spake 
To  thee  upon  the  lake 

And  once  again  be  still  ! 

Lift  not  the  awful  deep, 
Nor  tumble  it  ashore, 
Nor  scream  above  the  roar, 

Nor  pile  it  heap  on  heap. 

Without  thy  wilful  rage 
The  ocean  were  a  glass  : 
The  birch  canoe  might  pass 

On  it  an  endless  age. 

Oh  had  I  not  been  cast 
Upon  a  wind-torn  sea 
29 


30  ODE    TO    THE    WIND. 

How  quiet  might  I  be 
And  safe  on  land  at  last  ! 

But  so  the  Spirit  goes 

As  blows  the  viewless  wind, 
Upheaving  all  the  mind 

And  searching  all  her  woes  ; 

Uptearing  from  its  bed 
And  dashing  on  the  beach 
Along  the  sandy  reach 

The  weedy  crop  and  dead. 

With  mighty  hand  and  high 
And  voice  that  terrifies 
The  obedient  waves  that  rise 

Confounded  with  the  sky, 

The  Spirit  in  the  breast 

Sweeps  on  its  rugged  course, 
An  ocean-moving  force, 

And  brings  the  bark  to  rest. 


THE  WHEAT  OF  AMENTI. 

WILL  men  forget  that  my  wheat-field 
Was  once  full  fresh  and  fair  ? 
Will  they  say  that  naught  but  stubble 
And  yellow  straw  are  there  ? 
Will  they  forget  the  wheat-field 
Was  once  full  green  and  fair  ? 

I  Ve  seen  full  many  an  image, 
Carved  on  the  Nile  of  old, 
Of  the  travelling  souls  of  Amenti 
In  their  journeys  manifold 
Carrying  wheat  for  which  they  had  labored 
While  their  life  was  yet  on  earth, 
With  the  hoe  of  field  and  garden 
And  their  name  and  symbol  of  worth  : 
And  I  Ve  wondered  if  Someone  had  told  them 
There  is  life  in  the  earthly  grain 
31 


32  THE    WHEAT  OF  AMENTI. 

That  will  make  the  meadows  of  Heaven 
Look  fresh  and  green  again. 

And  I  've  seen  these  souls  of  Amend 
With  their  hoe  of  garden  and  field 
At  work  on  the  heavenly  tillage  ; 
And  I  've  seen  the  heavenly  yield 
High  rising  above  the  reapers 
Like  reeds  by  the  water  side  ; 
And  I  've  seen  their  cattle  threshing 
In  the  Anro  Meadow  wide  ; 
And  I  've  seen  their  wheat  unwinnowed 
And  their  winnowed  wheat,  and  bread, 
With  a  spirit  kneeling  before  One 
Who  hath  a  crown  on  His  head  ! 

And  then  I  have  thought  of  the  question, 
If  the  living  point  in  the  grain 
Will  put  forth  shoots  in  Amend 
Turning  green  my  field  again. 


THE  POOR  WEED. 

THERE  are  that  fulfil  not  their  promises. 

The  leaves  are  often  fairer  than  the  fruit  ; 

The  tender  infant  fairer  than  the  man. 

But  shall  the  infant  lie  within  the  man 

As  in  a  tomb  of  everlasting  death  ? 

Or  shall  an  Angel  come  and  loose  the  door 

And  sit  upon  the  stone  ?     Oh  child  in  me, 

Cease  not  thine  efforts  once  again  to  live 

A  second  child,  or  child  a  second  time  : 

Once  child  of  earth,  now  child  of  heavenly  clime. 


33 


WAIT. 

NATURE  ahvay  is  in  tune  : 
Nature  alway  hath  a  rune. 
Let  it  be  an  autumn  day  ; 
Let  it  be  a  day  in  May  : 
Nature  alway  hath  a  rune  ; 
Nature  ahvay  is  in  tune. 
Let  it  be  in  autumn  late  : 
There  is  music  when  we  wait. 
Once  I  waited  very  long  ; 
But  my  life  became  a  song. 


34 


END  OF  DECEMBER. 

SPRING  is  a  lisper  ; 
Comes  in  a  whisper. 
Spring  is  a  tumming, 
Tapping  and  thrumming. 
Coming  a  little, 
Moiety,  a  tittle  ; 
For  the  December 
Is  but  an  ember. 


35 


WINTER  CHICKADEES. 

Now  the  winter  chickadee 
Flutters  in  the  appletree, 
On  the  bole  and  on  the  bough, 
On  the  frosty  foggage  now, 
While  the  sun  is  held  with  ease 
Right  between  two  sinewy  trees. 

Now  he  singeth  "  chickadee  ;  " 
"  Phebe,"  now,  and  plaintively  ; 
Now  another  sweeter  lay 
Few  would  think  his  song  or  say  : 
Song  or  say  of  nesting  time 
When  sweet  love  is  in  her  prime. 


BREAKING  UP  OF  WINTER. 

LITTLE  squirrel,  spring  is  hatching  ; 
Love  and  happiness  are  catching. 
Now  the  river-ice  is  broken  ; 
The  Ticonic  Falls  have  spoken  ; 
Segur  and  the  Clover  woken. 
Fort  Hill  now  is  showing  patches 
Large  enough  for  partridge  scratches. 
Ducks  are  in  the  breathing  places 
Where  the  fishes  sun  their  faces. 
Peetweets  soon  will  be  repeating 
All  their  rapid,  high  peetweeting  ; 
River-bank  to  bank  o'erflitting, 
On  the  river-boulders  sitting, 
Teetering  up  and  down  and  quitting. 
Many  things  will  soon  be  coming  ; 
Bees  and  bumblebees  a-humming. 
There  's  enough  to  keep  us  happy 
In  our  burrows  warm  and  nappy. 


37 


TO  THE  BLUEBIRD. 

OH  dearest  birds  that  ever  sang, 
That  ever  sang  and  made  a  nest, 

Ye  bluebirds,  flying  round  in  pairs, 
I  love  you,  faithful  bluebirds,  best. 


From  early  spring  to  autumn  snow 
In  hollow  post  or  rail  ye  build  ; 

Or,  on  the  corner  of  the  barn 

Your  little  box  with  straw  is  filled. 


Oft,  going  for  the  pastured  cow, 

I  've  turned  me  to  the  old  stump  fence 

To  see  your  blue  eggs  in  a  root 

Or  if  the  young  had  fluttered  thence. 

33 


TO    THE  BLUEBIRD.  39 

Ye  turtle  doves  of  northern  homes, 
Of  northern  homes  on  either  hand, 

Your  simple  note,  so  soft  and  deep, 
Will  soon  be  heard  out  o'er  the  land. 


ROBIN-SONG. 

THE  robin  sings  at  dimmy  dawn, 
At  any  time  all  day, 
And  when  the  twilight  cometh  on 
You  hear  the  robin-lay. 
All  while  the  robin  is  awake, 
With  time  for  leisure  wing, 
He  '11  sit  and  sing  for  singing's  sake, 
Nor  sigh  if  he  can  sing. 
And  when  a  grief  is  overpast 
He  '11  seek  the  topmost  bough 
And  sing  as  he  would  sing  his  last, 
As  he  is  singing  now. 
To-day  he  loves  the  sunny  sun, 
To-morrow  loves  the  rain, 
In  autumn  loves  the  winter  run, 
And  loves  the  spring  again. 
40 


ROBIN-SONG.  41 

He  thinketh  not  if  he  may  die, 
Or  mourneth  the  unknown, 
But  feels  the  moment  going  by 
And  maketh  it  his  own. 


CHIMNEY  SWALLOW. 

HITHER  comes  the  swallow  back, 

Doing  as  I  knew  he  would  : 
Wing  and  body  picked,  black, 

Chitting  round  in  cheery  mood  ; 
Lighting  ne'er  on  roof  or  tree, 

Twittering  ever  on  the  wing  : 
Note,  but  ne'er  a  song  hath  he  ; 

Chats,  like  me,  but  cannot  sing. 
And  he  knoweth  naught  of  earth, 

Feeding  in  the  wingy  air  ; 
Lighting  just  above  the  hearth, 

For  his  little  home  is  there  : 
Skimming  in  a  morn  of  May 

In  a  mellow,  mackerel  sky  ; 
Up,  and  off,  and  high  away, 

Disappearing  to  the  eye  : 
42 


CHIMNEY  SWALLOW.  43 

Then  our  little  bird  will  come — 

Robin  never  lived  so  near — 
Down  into  the  heart  of  home, 

Filling  it  with  quiet  cheer. 


TO  THE  WOOD-THRUSH  OF  SEGAGUS. 

SHY  thrush,  again  thy  voice  is  heard, 
Thou  sweetest,  lonest,  native  bird, 
Emperched  out  of  reach  of  gun, 
But  plainer  seen,  marked  by  the  sun, 
The  setting  sun,  here  out  of  sight, 
But  not  to  thee  in  that  far  height, 
As  still  thou  singest,  singest  long, 
Upon  thy  crimson  mount  of  song, 
A  little  island  high  away 
Retaining  all  there  is  of  day, 
And  all  the  choicest  thing  on  earth, 
A  wood-thrush,  heir  of  song  by  birth. 

Where  didst  thou  pass  thine  infancy  ? 
What  food  ambrosial  nourished  thee  ? 
Wert  cradled  in  the  purple  clouds, 
Or  in  the  wreath  of  mist  thee  shrouds, 
44 


TO    THE    WOOD-THRUSH  OF  SEGAGUS.          45 

Or  housened  on  the  braken  sward, 
Thou  spirit,  looking  heavenward  ? 

Thou  'mindst  me  of  my  mate,  my  bird, 
Whose  richest  tones  at  eve  are  heard  ; 
As  once,  adown  this  woodland  green, 
Thine  own  self,  vying,  well  hast  seen. 
Thou  markedst  how  she  moved  along 
In  the  full  current  of  thy  song, 
As  thou  wert  watching,  overhead, 
Thine  each  note  pulsing  in  her  tread, 
Alternate  listening  to  her  tone, 
And,  next  time,  deepening  thine  own. 

And  now  the  eve  is  coming  on 
And  thy  last  sunbeams  almost  gone 
Upon  the  dark  top  of  the  pine, 
Thy  little  form  alone  in  shine  ; 
A  little  crescent,  setting  moon, 
A  while  in  sight,  but  lost  too  soon  ; 
A  wood-thrush  warbling  deeper  still 
As  evening  shades  Segagus'  rill 
And  one  sense  less  distracts  the  mind 


46  TO    THE    WOOD-THRUSH  OF  SEGAGUS. 

From  sweet  sounds  floating  on  the  wind  : 
A  meteor  starting  into  sight 
And  gliding  down  into  the  night 
Thou  comest,  darling,  from  the  tree 
To  sit  and  carol  nearer  me. 


THE  EAGLE. 

How  the  eagle  does  : — 

Gathering  up  his  might, 
Quitting  where  he  was, 

Soars  he  in  the  height. 
But  his  aerie  home 

Is  not  ahvay  grand  : 
Now  on  mountain  dome, 

Now  in  lowly  land. 
In  a  rugged  wold, 

Be  it  but  apart, 
He  shall  build  his  hold, 

Take  his  mighty  start. 
Where  he  makes  his  bed, 

Where  he  piles  his  lair, 
Turns  his  noble  head, 

'T  is  the  king  that  's  there. 
47 


48  THE  EAGLE. 

Where  he  heaps  his  nest, 

Where  he  lies  in  state, 
Where  he  takes  his  rest, 

There  the  place  is  great. 
When  he  looketh  far 

Through  the  forest  dim 
From  a  naked  spar, 

Then  look  up  at  him. 
Feel  him  seize  thine  eye  ; 

See  him  once  for  aye  ; 
Watch  him  towering  high 

On  his  spiral  way, 
Till,  a  little  mote, 

Black  upon  the  blue, 
He  is  like  a  boat 

Sailing  out  of  view. 


WREN. 

LITTLE  chubby,  twittering  wren, 
In  the  eastern  home  again 
Soon  wilt  build  the  hasty  bed 
Round  the  gray  old  barn  or  shed, — 
In  a  mortise  of  a  brace, 
Bluebird  box,  or  other  place 
Large  enough  for  bumblebee, 
Or,  my  feather-ball,  for  thee. 

Wonder  if  you,  little  pest, 
Still  fill  up  the  bluebird's  nest 
Now  with  straw,  and  now  with  twig, 
Till  the  hole  is  not  so  big 
As  the  bluebird's  darling  head  ; 
Stealing  from  her  her  sweet  bed, 
49 


5O  WREN. 


Forcing  her  to  work  for  you 
A  whole  precious  day  or  two  ? — 
So  insultingly  a  chip 
On  the  gable's  very  tip 
While  the  bluebird  is  gone  in  ; 
Stopping  quick  your  ceaseless  din 
When  the  bluebird  flies  away, 
Hurrying  in  whate'er  you  may. 
Are  there,  darling  as  thou  art, 
Some  to  take  the  bluebird's  part, 
Pulling  out  your  barnyard  stuff 
Till  the  hole  is  large  enough 
For  the  bluebird,  rightful  host, 
On  the  barn's  high  corner-post  ? 
Oh  how  often  I  've  regretted 
That  thy  ways  me  ever  fretted  ! 
We  have  been  so  rudely  parted 
Oh  how  oft  I  grow  sad-hearted  ! 
Could  we  meet  and  never  part 
I  would  love  thee  as  thou  art, — 
Filling  every  nook  with  crannies, 


WREN.  5 1 


Helping  you,  whate'er  your  plan  is, 
Favoring  all  your  fancies  pretty 
Never  wearying  of  your  ditty  ; 
Making  boxes  without  number 
Out  of  gray  old  fencing  lumber, 
Nailing  them  where'er  their  tint 
Gives  the  seeker  little  hint : 
Or  upon  the  oilnut  gray, 
Cool,  and  from  the  cat  away, 
Or  about  the  eaves  and  gable 
Of  the  house  or  shed  or  stable. 

Oh  could  we  live  o'er  again 
All  our  childhoods,  little  wren, 
There  'd  be  room  enough  for  more 
Than  there  was  in  days  of  yore  ! 


ODE  AND  SONG  TO  THE  ENGLISH  SPARROW. 

HAIL  to  thee,  Terror, 
Brought  by  an  error, 
Fancy,  or  notion, 
Over  the  ocean, 

Sparrow  of  England  ! 

How  is  it  Ayrshire, 
Dumfries,  and  Her'shire 
Have  yet  a  wood-bird, 
Bad  bird  or  good  bird 
If  the  whole  country  is 
Full  of  thy  effronteries, 

Pet  pest  of  England  ? 


So  round  about  our  hedges  flit ; 
Deep  in  the  cedars  crowd  and  chit. 

52 


TO    THE  ENGLISH  SPARROW.  53 

When  Winter  frays  each  other  wing, 
Here  do  thy  very  best  to  sing  : 
Make  happy  noise  in  merry  time, 
A  flood  of  noise  instead  of  rhyme, 
And  break  the  Winter  all  to  bits, 
Ye  little  busy  foreign  chits. 


THE  BAT. 

THOU,  little  even  bird, 
Seen  dimly  and  unheard  ; 
Too  poor  to  fire  at, 
Thou  nothing  but  a  bat  ! 
I  get  a  mighty  word  : — 
Be  little  seen  and  heard. 

Oft  as  at  eventide 
I  walk  the  riverside 
I  view  thee  catching  flies 
All  round  about  the  skies  : 
All  using  up  the  day 
And  not  in  any's  way. 

When  sparrows  under  hill 
Are  chippered  out  and  still 
And  Silence,  like  a  mist, 
Signs  to  the  meadow  "  Hist  !  " 
54 


THE  BAT.  55 

'T  is  perfectness  in  thee 
To  move  so  silently. 

And  when  the  sky  is  red 
And  thou  art  overhead, 
And  Vhen  it  's  toning  down 
And  shading  into  brown, 
'T  is  well  thou  autumn  bit 
Art  blended  into  it. 


THE  MYSTIC. 

THE  violet  blows  by  Mystic  side 
When  all  the  leaves  are  tender, 

And  on  her  fells,  a  day  in  June, 
The  honeysuckle  slender. 

The  violet  blooms  in  Segur  Dell, 
And  there  I  wander  early 

To  guess  if  honeysuckles  blow 
By  one  I  love  so  dearly. 

The  common  ocean  gathers  in 
The  Mystic  and  the  Segur, 

And  where  the  stormy  petrel  flits 
Unites  their  waters  eager. 

They  rise  in  mist,  they  fall  in  rain, 
In  dew,  and  sunny  showers, 
56 


THE  MYSTIC.  57 

And  glide  as  one  in  Segur  Dell 
Beneath  the  spreading  bowers. 

But  little  hope  is  there  for  me 

That  I  may  meet  the  maiden 
Who  looked  at  me  and  spoke  to  me 

Then  left  me  lone  and  laden. 


SHAWS  OF  THE  SEGUR. 

THE  Segur  Shaws  are  beckoning  me  ; 
Their  sacred  walks  are  o'er  the  lea  ; 
And  Sabbath  hangs  her  holy  veil 
Around  the  shaws  for  me  : 

For  love  of  one  hath  holy  feet 
And  love  of  her  to-day  is  meet  : 
Two  silent  souls  in  quietude, 
O  grant  communion  sweet  ! 

Let  love  and  joy  the  far-off  maid, 
In  secret  chamber  closed,  invade, 
And  move  her  thought  in  wondering  way 
To  Segur's  slaty  glade. 

The  peace  of  all  this  fragrant  dell 
Enfold  her  spirit  in  a  spell, 

58 


SHAWS  OF   THE   SEGUR.  59 

Albeit  the  place  unknown,  undear 
As  he  who  loveth  well. 

But  once  we  met,  and  parted  then — 
So  long  ago  I  know  not  when  : 
We  parted  then  and  met  no  more 
And  little  heard  again. 

Yet  still  I  come  to  Segur  braes 
With  oaken  shaws  and  braken  sprays, 
To  still  brood  o'er  one  memory 
So  sacred  all  the  days. 


VISIT  TO   SEGUR'S  BROOK. 

I  ONCE,  O  Segur,  hoped  to  sing 
A  song  for  all  the  ages  ; 
But  now  I  cannot,  e'en  in  prose, 
Tell  what  my  heart  encages. 
The  trees  grow  nobler  all  along 
Thy  crooked,  winding  valley, 
And  June  is  sweeter  than  a  song 
As  breezes  die  and  rally. 
There  's  listening  on  every  hand 
For  something  to  be  uttered  : — 

"  O  Segur,  speak  the  lover's  love 
So  often  to  thee  muttered  : 
The  love  of  one  as  far  away 
As  in  his  early  childhood 
Still  filling  all  his  heart  with  love 
60 


VISIT   TO   SEGUR'S  BROOK.  6l 

And  all  this  listening  wildwood. 

Oh  cease  thy  carol,  sacred  thrush, 

Thou  bird  of  all  the  ages  ! 

I  cannot  bear  the  mighty  strain 

That  now  my  heart  engages. 

Oh  speak  aloud  ye  human  trees 

A  hundred  feet  above  me  ; 

Your  dewy  eyes  and  trembling  lips 

Reveal  how  well  ye  loved  me  ! 

Ye  Seba  Heights  and  Segur  Hills, 

Three  Heights  and  Hills  scarce  parted, 

Low  in  the  centre  at  your  feet 

Bear  witness  '  One  true  hearted.'  " 


A  DEW-DROP. 

ONE  sun-lit  dew-drop  in  the  grass  ; 
No  other  anywhere  in  sight  : 
Some  gentle  fairy,  in  her  pass, 
Out  of  her  necklace  dropped  it  last  night. 

And  now  it  is  a  sapphire  blue  ; 
And  now  a  yellow  topaz  fair  ; 
And  now  a  ruby  drop  of  dew  : 
What  kind  of  jewel  doth  a  fairy  wear? 


62 


THE  EVENING    PRIMROSE. 

THE  primrose  blooms  at  eventide, 
And,  where  I  go,  the  highway  side 
It  lights  up  with  its  yellow  blow  : 
What  else  it  does  I  do  not  know, — 
Except,  all  day,  with  dust  of  road 
The  leaves  are  gray,  and,  until  blowed, 
The  bud  is  gray,  with  slight  perfume, 
Till  eve  unfolds  a  clean  sweet  bloom. 

It  grows  there  in  the  short  green  grass 
Between  where  foot  and  carriage  pass  : 
Where  wheels  might  crush  it,  should  one  ride, 
And  the  horse  startled  sheer  aside. 
It  sprang  up  there,  and  there  hath  grown 
And  made  the  narrow  green  its  own  : 
Chose  not  a  place  by  nature  fair, 
63 


64  THE  EVENING  PRIMROSE. 

But  made  one  so  by  growing  there. 
And  when  the  August  days  are  hot 
It  quitteth  not  the  chosen  spot, 
But  there  at  evening  may  be  found 
Because  the  root  is  deep  in  ground. 

I  often  pick  one  for  my  wife  ; 
'  T  is  so  much  like  her  own  dear  life 
To  stay  right  here  where  she  but  must 
And  be  a  flower  though  there  be  dust. 


THE  IMMORTAL  TREE. 

A  TREE,  delighted  with  the  earth,  grew  sad 
Because  she  must  quite  perish  at  the  last. 
Just  then  her  seeds  like  myriad  windows  oped 
Therewith,  her  eyes,  and  through  them  looked  she 
And  saw  herself  an  endless  forest  stand. 
Then  were  content,  but  that  another  glance 
Showed  all  her  kind  no  longer  on  the  earth, 
Save  deep  in  mines.     Her  second  sight  was  oped, 
And  she  in  her  own  proper  person  stood 
A  spirit  tree  within  a  spirit  wood. 
Then  gladder  grew  her  life  ;  and  lop  of  bough, 
Or  loss  of  leaf  or  fruit  she  little  marked  ; 
For  that  she  felt  herself  all  whole  within, 
However  worn  or  spoiled  she  had  been. 


MILE-STONES. 

TRUE  fame  is  worthy  of  a  good  man's  zeal  : 
Confess  it,  ye  who  quicken  at  the  names 
Whose  deeds  or  writ  divide  the  distant  past 
Like  mile-stones  scattered  on  the  closing  way  ; 
Admonitory  that  the  onward  road 
Will  claim  like  bounds  for  yet  back-looking  man. 
How  much  we  owe  unto  the  garnered  past  ! 
Our  lips  to-day  are  not  more  surely  fed 
With  last  year  grain  than  are  our  thinking  souls 
By  old  experience  :  by  deeds  and  words 
That  were  so  done  and  writ,  their  echoes  roll 
Back  from  the  luminous  sky  of  olden  days 
With  inward  power  to  move  us  on  our  ways. 


66 


FORGETFULNESS. 

I  SEE  not  now  why  e'en  forgetfulness 

Should  'minish  aught  the  joy  the  blessed  feel, 

Rich  in  the  present  filled  to  perfectness. 

How  few  the  memories  we  would  bear  to  Heaven  ! 

It  being  so,  how  much  would  we  recall  ? 

How  much  regret  spend  over  memories  closed  ? 

These  summer  leaves  may  rattle  to  the  earth, 

But  fruits  matured  are  gathered  to  the  barn. 

And  fruits  have  in  them  seeds  to  germinate 

In  other  ground  and  yield  like  fruits  again. 

Nor  shall  aught  die.    The  book  of  life  here  writ 

Upon  our  inner  selves  stands  legible 

From  age  to  age,  a  record  foul  or  fair  ; 

And  he  that  writeth  needs  but  look  in  there. 


67 


HOME  LAKE. 

I  'M  like  a  fish  of  the  ocean, 

This  rustling  autumn  day, 
Remembering  with  emotion 

The  lake  of  infancy, 
Where  now  the  painter,  October, 

Oft  looks  and  turns  to  me, 
With  face  upraised  and  sober 

From  her  palate  in  the  tree  ; 
And  up  the  river  of  childhood 

My  thoughtful  way  I  take, 
And  up  the  streams  of  the  wildwood 

And  back  into  the  lake. 


63 


TEWELEMA. 

PRINCESS  Massasoit, 
Daughter  of  the  chieftain, 
Long  descended,  hail  I 
Thee  the  lineal  ruler 
Of  these  natal  wildwoods. 

The  Satucket  River 
And  her  bordering  valleys 
And  the  hills  above  them 
Crowned  by  Wonnocooto 
Claim  their  pristine  monarch. 

Spindles  of  the  cornfield 
Fingers  multitudinous 
To  the  Indian  heavens, 
69 


7O  TEWELEMA. 

Silent  and  unanimous, 
Raise  in  attestation. 

Every  year  the  flowers, 
With  traditional  memory 
Of  thy  great  grandsire 
And  nesv  childlike  wonder, 
Open  to  behold  thee. 

And  the  great-eyed  squirrel 
In  the  sinewy  oak  top, 
Mindful  of  thy  fathers, 
Holds  the  acorn  breathless 
Watchful  of  thy  fingers. 

I,  too,  lore  instructed, 
See  the  awful  moccason 
On  thy  foot  imperial, 
And  dread  Metacomet 
Rises  up  in  vengeance. 

In  the  flying  car  train, 
Sitting  at  a  window 


TEWELEMA. 

Looking  on  the  woodland, 
Thoughts  of  Oiisamequin 
Smooth  thy  troubled  forehead. 

Merciful  and  pitying 
Was  the  mighty  peace  king 
Sent  to  make  it  easy 
For  the  band  of  pilgrims 
Driven  to  thy  forests. 

In  thy  crown  of  feathers, 
Lonely  Tewelema, 
Thou  art  going  silent 
To  the  Nahteawamett 
On  the  Assowamsett  ; 

To  the  Reservation 
Held  by  old  tradition  ; 
Wootonekamiske 
And  thy  aged  mother 
Looking  from  the  cabin. 


72  TEWELEA1A. 

Gone  to  the  Ponemah 
We  shall  miss  you  absent. 
When  the  sparrow  twitters 
Then  will  we  remember 
Thee,  O  Chic'-chic-chewee. 

And  when  fairs  are  crowded 
On  the  Nunckatesett, 
Then  thou,  Indian  maiden, 
Shalt  appear  in  vision 
From  the  isles  of  chieftains. 


THE   WOODLANDERS. 

A    LAMENT    OVER    THEM. 

Ho,  come,  stand  with  heads  uncovered 
And  hear  the  story  told  growing  old  ! 
How  men  went  to  war  as  to  pleasure 
As  they  go  to  seaside  and  mountain  ! 
How  died  they  like  flowers  of  the  summer 
That  appear  for  a  day  and  are  gone  ! 

I  saw,  out  of  Maine's  pine  forest, 
The  wood-camp  crew  on  dead  heavy  tread  : 
Not  marching  from  schoolhouse  to  common, 
From  common  to  schoolhouse  returning, 
But  forward  and  onward  and  southward 
To  the  banks  of  Potomac  away. 
73 


74  THE    WOODLANDERS. 

Old  mates,  crossing  o'er  at  Fairfield 
The  Kennebec's  proud  wave,  to  the  grave 
High  travelling,  musket  to  shoulder  ; 
I  saw  them  in  columns  unsorted, 
In  ranks  like  the  tips  of  the  pine  tops, 
Short  and  tall,  arm  to  arm,  friend  to  friend. 


Oh  men,  share  my  aching  sorrow. 

Bow  down  with  grief  profound  to  the  ground. 

They  never  marched  back  again  homeward  ; 

They  died  on  Virginia's  borders  ; 

The  boughs  of  their  bunks  from  the  hemlock 
Shed  their  leaves  and  dried  up  and  decayed. 

Ho,  hear  :  't  is  a  piteous  story  : — 
The  forestmen  are  dead,  they  are  sped. 
Their  cabin  of  logs  in  the  woodland 
Was  glad  with  their  yarns  and  their  laughter  ; 
They  all  slept  together  like  children 
With  their  feet  to  the  open  wood  fire. 


THE    WOODLANDERS. 

But  now,  rattling  at  his  stanchion, 

The  ox  looks  round  to  hark  in  the  dark  : 

He  hears  not  a  sound  that  's  familiar  ; 

He  knows  not  the  man  in  the  hay-house  ; 

Turns  backward  and  forward  his  ears 
And  his  eyes  meet  the  eyes  of  his  mate. 

There  's  grief  when  the  cattle  wonder 
And  moo  and  look  about  in  a  doubt  : 

They  die  without  reading  their  riddle  ; 

They  miss  the  old  teamsters  in  exile  ; 

See  not  the  old  cook  with  the  lanterns 
But  the  new  one  bring  lights  for  the  teams. 

Ah  say,  Where  is  now  the  story 

That  whiled  the  evening  long  like  a  song  ? 
The  teller  was  off  for  the  war-camp  ; 
The  hearer  sprang  up  from  the  telling 
At  once  with  the  shriek  of  Fort  Sumter 

When  the  cannon  was  fired  at  her  flag. 


76  THE    WOODLANDERS. 

Oh  woe  when  the  story  's  broken 
Beside  the  burning  heap  ere  men  sleep  : 
For  who  could  go  on  with  the  wonder 
When  seats  by  the  fireside  are  vacant 
And  hearers  would  only  be  thinking 
Of  the  voice  of  the  mate  who  began  ? 

And  weep  o'er  the  single  hearted 
Who  alway  live  at  home,  summer  home, 
And  sleep  in  the  woods  in  the  winter, 
And  then  from  the  quiet  of  nature 
Are  marched  through  bewildering  cities 
To  the  lonely  wild  waste  of  the  war. 


Gone,  gone,  and  a  border  soldier. 

How  far  away  from  home  thou  dost  roam. 
How  cruel  the  soul  to  the  body 
To  bear  it  a  captive  so  hopeless. 
Dost  never  thou  feel  for  a  moment 

Any  sickness  for  home  in  the  woods  ? 


THE    WOODLANDERS. 

Come  back.  Now  the  snow  is  fallen  ; 
'T  is  eighty  feet  on  high  in  the  sky  ; 

The  pine  tops  are  loaded  down  heavy  ; 

'T  is  level  arm  deep  on  the  leaf  bed  ; 

The  cook  has  piled  high  the  tea  fire 
And  is  waiting  and  watching  for  you. 

The  meal  soon  will  be  all  ready  ; 
In  half  a  minute  more  or  before  : 

Rake  open  the  fire  and  the  ashes  ; 

Dig  down  for  the  beans  in  the  embers  ; 

The  biscuit  are  brown  in  the  bakers 
And  the  dippers  are  brought  for  the  tea. 

Oh  say,  Will  ye  come  to  supper  ? 

Does  home  look  good  afar  where  ye  are  ? 
Come  !  Axes  are  swinging  and  ringing 
And  echoing  clear  to  the  table, 
'Mid  calls  of  the  men  and  the  crashings 

And  the  singing  of  saws  and  the  chains. 


78  THE    WOODLANDERS. 

I  see,  in  among  the  pine  trees, 

The  flannel  sleeves  and  red,  hear  the  tread 
Of  men  with  their  axes  to  shoulder, 
Each  man  with  an  axe  on  his  shoulder, 
At  will  bearing  arms  of  the  log-land 

To  the  peaceful  and  quiet  home  hut. — 


Alas,  they  be  ghosts  and  phantoms, 
The  shadows  of  the  great  in  a  strait 

That  vanished  one  day  from  the  forest. 

I  saw,  in  the  long  heavy  car-train, 

Their  regiment  stop  for  a  little, 
And  I  asked  who  they  were  and  where  bound 

"  O  guard,  let  me  look  a  moment." 
I  saw  the  men  in  blue  two  and  two  ; 
In  every  car-seat  twin  messmates, 
And  never  a  car-seat  was  empty, 
Bent  forward  and  resting  their  foreheads  ; 
And  they  looked  like  a  thousand  of  lions. 


THE    WOODLANDERS.  79 

No  more.     Went  they  on  and  onward. 

I  heard  the  cannon  sound  ;  and  the  ground 
Was  alway  in  opening  her  bosom 
And  folding  them  mustered  from  battle. 
But  off  were  their  wraiths  to  the  wildwood, 

Their  freed  manes  were  back  in  old  home. 


Even  now,  when  the  snow  is  going, 

And  logs  are  hauled  no  more  to  the  shore, 

And  axes  no  longer  all  talking, 

Their  shades  wander  down  over  State  Street 

And  into  the  city  of  Bangor 
With  the  sturdy  old  stepping  of  yore. 

Like  beeves,  free  of  yoke  and  loosened, 
Together  keep  they  still  down  the  hill, 
Along  by  the  Bridge  of  Kenduskeag, 
To  Elder's,  the  Alleyway  Cellar, 
And  eat  of  the  meal  they  had  promised 
Far  away  in  the  fields  of  the  South. 


THE  LOST  SHEEP. 

HEAR,  Good  Shepherd,  hear  my  cry  ; 
Lost  among  the  hills  am  I. 
Leave,  for  me,  the  ninety-nine  ; 
Find  me,  find,  and  make  me  thine. 
In  the  mountains,  strayed  from  thee, 
Come,  O  come,  and  seek  for  me. 

Where  the  wilderness  is  dry 
Seek  for  me  before  I  die. 
Where  the  mountain-side  is  steep 
And  ravines  are  dark  and  deep, 
Where  thou  hearest  one  low  moan 
Seek  me  starving,  lost,  and  lone. 

Lay  me  on  thy  shoulders,  lay, 
Weak  and  weary  of  my  way. 


THE  LOST  SHEEP.  8 1 

All  my  strength  in  wandering  spent, 
Take,  and  bear  me  to  thy  tent. 
Let  me  hear  thine  own  dear  voice, 
And  thy  friends,  with  thee,  rejoice. 


MEASURE. 

A  LONG,  low  line  of  brick  and  granite  stores 
Extended  down  a  river's  narrow  vale. 
These  blocks  were  built  full  fifty  years  ago  ; 
But  failure  following  swiftly  on  their  rise 
They  died  in  youth,  a  row  of  skeletons 
Wherein  the  ghosts  of  disappointed  men 
Held  nightly  haunt  among  decaying  stairs 
And  looked  out  through  empty  window  holes. 
The  region  was  a  place  one  went  to  see 
And  then  to  think  of  in  the  dead  of  night. 
It  was  a  weird  retreat  that  wound  away 
As  wound  the  stream  which  dully  rippled  by. 
So  little  trodden  was  it  that  the  weeds 
Came  up  among  decaying  lumber-piles. 
The  dandelion  blossomed  here  in  May 
82 


MEASURE.  83 

In  crevices  of  long  neglected  walks. 

The  street  was  like  a  discontinued  road 

Where  daisies,  buttercups,  and  grasses  grow. 

Boats  paddled  by,  and  all  was  still  again. 

The  meditative  boy  who  came  to  fish 

Forgot  to  bait  his  hook  and  went  to  sleep 

Among  the  flowers  with  gentle  Solitude. 

The  city  noises,  busy  in  their  place, 

Ne'er  thought  to  turn  aside  and  come  in  here, 

But  here  it  was  a  workman  wandered  in, 

Like  some  lone  bird,  and  built  his  hidden  nest. 

Old  Time  alone  took  rent  in  every  room  ; 

Thought  quartered  here  ;  Invention  here  abode  ; 

Patience  had  chambers  ;  Trying  stayed  here  long  ; 

Measure,  the  snow-white  queen  of  perfect  work, 

Her  golden  reed  borne  in  her  lily  hand, 

Here  sought  her  child,  and  said,  "  Take  this,  my  son, 

And  fix  its  perfect  marks  the  first  since  time. 

Guide  every  hand  henceforth  through  ways  untried 

And  haste  the  coming  of  the  coming  age." 

She  reached  to  him  her  reed  and  disappeared, 


84  MEASURE. 

But  did  not  leave  his  side  until  Success, 

With  clean  and  radiant  robes,  stripped  off  the  clothes 

Work-worn  and  mean,  but  beautiful  to  those 

Who  knew  the  workman  and  the  work  he  wrought. 

'T  is  measure  leads  straight  on  to  perfect  fit  ; 

And  perfect  fit  is  perfect  perfectness. 

Who  marks  the  perfect  rule  helps  read  the  stars. 

The  slightest  fault  on  earth  is  great  in  heaven  : 

The  line  that  deviates  will  never  reach 

The  targe  where  Truth,  the  Revelator,  stands. 

The  perfect  Rule  is  Empress  of  the  hand  : 

"  Work    thus,"    she     saith,    "  from    needle-point     to 

point  ;  " 

And  men  of  master  mind  obey  her  word. 
Mechanic  and  astronomer  are  one  ; 
Astronomer  and  captain  of  the  ship  ; 
Captain  and  mate  ;  the  mate  and  pilot,  one  ; 
Pilot  and  sailor  ;  men,  and  instruments 
That  look  up  to  the  skies,  or  tell  the  time, 
Or  feel  the  cold  and  heat  and  weigh  the  air 
That  lie  between  the  sundered  continents. 


MEASURE.  85 

'T  is  accuracy  of  guidance  and  of  aim 

That  swings  the  planets  of  the  universe 

In  wavy  lines  without  one  accident. 

'T  is  guidance  through  a  point  that  hath  no  length 

Which  microscope  can  see,  and  then  the  point 

That  lieth  next  thereto,  and  then  the  next, 

That  bears  a  hundred  million  suns  upon 

Their  unknown  course  with  rifle-bullet  speed 

Attended  by  their  planetary  earths 

Like  flocks  of  birds  that  cross  the  summer  sky, 

Without  one  wrecking  crash,  or  hit,  or  jar  : 

Without  one  sound  so  loud  as  of  a  bee 

That  shoots  herself  away  unto  the  hive. 

'T  is  perfectness  of  work  makes  silence  reign 

Among  the  myriad  stars.     'T  is  perfect  work 

To  turn  a  shaft  on  nothing  ;  to  revolve 

Each  glittering  globe  of  fire  with  solid  core 

Around  a  line  more  slight  than  spider-web  ; 

On  pivots  smaller  than  the  sting  of  bee  ; 

On  axle-bearings  that  no  bearings  are — 

Mere  points  of  turning  that  shall  know  no  wear 

As  untold  ages  wend  through  endless  time. 


86  MEASURE. 

The  Builder  of  the  boundless  universe 
Creates  in  man  an  image  of  Himself ; 
And  keeps  created  there  and  keeps  alive 
The  power  to  build  the  countless  miniatures 
Of  perfect  work  ;  until  a  thousand  wheels 
Grow  silent,  or,  grow  still,  and  stiller  grow, 
In  imitation  of  the  moving  worlds. 

'T  is  perfect  measure  forms  the  telescope 
That  finds  the  angle  for  a  new  result  ; 
And  this  result  guides  every  struggling  ship 
To  port  and  home  :  the  sailor's  life  is  hung 
On  accurate  measurement.     'T  is  point  by  point 
Our  lives  are  measured  off.     The  ticking  watch 
Proclaims  our  passing  days  :  each  tick,  a  day. 
The  escapement  of  a  clock  goes  meting  out 
Our  time.     With  fingers  on  our  wrist  we  feel 
Escapement-work  and  know  it  is  our  own  : 
But  joyful  know  the  measuring  is  divine 
And  will  not  cease,  but  still  go  beating  on, 
Moved  by  His  heart  who  moveth  all  that  moves. 


MEASURE.  87 

Our  souls,  like  planets,  know  not  where  to  go, 

But  follo'.v  on  in  floating,  curving  lines, 

Now  up,  now  down,  to  left,  to  right,  but  on  ; 

Our  safety  certain  only  as  we  yield. 

But  as  we  yield,  the  Great  Astronomer 

Of  souls,  with  joyous  calculation,  sees 

The  peaceful  path  through  which  he  can  us  lead. 

Our  path  is  holy  ground.     By  step  and  step 

Is  meted  all  our  way.     Our  road  is  by 

A  slowly  winding  stream  ;  and  at  our  side 

A  man  with  flaxen  line  and  measuring  reed 

Goes  forth  to  measure  down  the  narrow  vale 

And  show  the  depth  our  life  thus  far  hath  gained  : 

Pauses  at  times  and  onward  metes  again 

Until  the  stream  becomes  a  river,  and 

A  flood  that  none  can  cross.     So  let  it  be  : 

The  depth  is  alway  equal  to  our  day. 

It  hath  been  ever.     We  are  told  not  all  : 

A  little  now  revealed  ;  and  now  a  mite, 

A  morsel,  hath  been  given  unto  us  ; 

A  cup  of  water,  then  a  crossless  stream  ; 


88  MEASURE. 

And  fruits  are  on  the  banks  for  every  month. 

But  if  so  be  the  builders  me  reject 

As  stone  unfitted,  though  bewrought  with  toil, 

Are  pillars  only  needed  ?     Are  not  stones 

For  base  and  cornice,  frieze  and  architrave, 

For  pavement,  gates,  and  walls  about  the  courts 

And  deep  foundations  needed  each  in  place  ? 

May  we  nor  seek  the  highest  nor  the  low, 

Nor  seek  at  all  save  only  to  go  in  ? 

For  e'en  the  sparrow  and  the  swallow  find 

Where  they  may  nest  and  watch  the  worshippers. 

The  fane  is  measured,  and  the  worshippers  ; 
The  court,  left  out,  unmeasured,  given  up 
Unto  the  nations — all  must  fit  the  fane. 
All  forms  are  measurable  ;  and  the  lost 
Are  known,  revealed,  and  fixed  again  to  sight 
By  lines  exact,  exactly  in  their  place. 
But  who  shall  find  the  measures  I  have  lost — 
The  measures  of  a  man  ?     The  length  and  breadth 
And  height  must  equal  be.     Length  is  a  line, 


MEASURE.  89 

A  hair,  a  viewless  thread.     The  largest  plane 
Is  but  a  surface  that  no  thickness  hath  : 
The  length  and  breadth  and  height  alone,  a  cube. 
We  must  all  measures  have,  and  equal  ones. 
The  sculptor  measures  in  the  marble  block 
And  finds  a  man.     The  architect  will  seek, 
With  rule  exact,  and  find  a  living  shaft. 
But  oh  what  sculptor,  architect,  shall  search 
With  line  and  reed,  and  beat  away  the  chips, 
And  find  a  worshipper,  or  living  stone, 
To  fit  in  somewhere  in  the  holy  fane  ! 


A     000  047  144     1 


